The Sensation of Falling
by Polexia Aphrodite
Summary: Bobby and Jean share a moment. Sort of. Epilogue up.
1. The Sensation of Falling

The Sensation of Falling  
  
By Polexia Aphrodite  
  
Summary: Bobby and Jean share a moment.  
  
Time Frame: Sometime after the latest Iceman LS.  
  
Notes: This is something that originally started as something quite different, just me trying to come up with an unusual pairing; it instead seems to be something of a character vignette thing. Hope you like it and even if you don't, reviews of any sort are much appreciated.  
  
Disclaimer: Bobby, Jean, and the X-Men belong to Marvel.  
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
Jean stirred, rubbing the corners of her eyes. She had been awakened by a gentle pressure that could only be caused by the adding of an afghan to her pajama-clad form as she lay curled on the plush couch of the mansion's common room. Stretching her lithe arms over her head and her feet towards the opposite end of the sofa, Jean opened her eyes, slowly, unveiling a very pensive Bobby Drake. Leaning over her, tongue pursed between his lips, hands still on the blanket he had been covering her with, Jean gave a slight chuckle at his attempts to leave her undisturbed. Bobby looked down at her.  
  
"Mornin' sunshine"  
  
"What time is it?" she groaned, her voice soaked with sleep  
  
Bobby kneeled and turned to the room's only light source: a muted TV situated across from the couch where Conan O'Brien was finishing his monologue.  
  
"About 12:45, I'd say"  
  
Jean swept her eyes over the room, bathed in flickering blue light and shadows and carefully slid her feet over the edge of the couch. Bobby, accepting her unspoken invitation, took the seat next to her as she replaced her feet on his lap. Jean sighed, "Why're you up?"  
  
"Couldn't sleep," he replied enigmatically.  
  
"Still thinking about Opal?"  
  
Bobby's eyes fell as he lifted a heavy hand to rub the stubble on the backside of his neck, a nervous habit Jean recognized from the earliest days of the X-Men. She winced at her sudden nostalgia.  
  
"Yeah, well, what's your excuse?" Bobby continued, now absently rubbing her feet through worn, lime colored socks.  
  
"Scott snores," she answered automatically.  
  
Bobby felt the muscles in her legs tense. She had answered too quickly. Even if she hadn't though, Bobby knew, like most people in the mansion, "Scott snores" was usually Jean-speak for "Scott and I had a huge fight and I can't even stand to sleep in the same room as him."  
  
Bobby glanced over at her, tousled red hair, heavy-lidded jade eyes, pale skin warmed by her recent sleep. He threw his lips into a kind of half- smile that was confused by the gravity of his eyes. Jean flushed and quickly turned her gaze back to the television, realizing his understanding of her situation.  
  
They sat that way for a while. Bobby warily turned up the volume to an audible level and continued his impromptu massage.  
  
After some time had passed, Jean found her eyes gradually drawn back to her companion's face. She gazed at him in silence, grateful for the murkiness of the room. --He still looks so young--, she thought, achingly aware of her own weariness, finally feeling the victim of years of fighting both the tangible and the intangible. True, he was a few years younger than her, but as she took in the untidy bronze hair and clear blue eyes before her, she found herself unexpectedly astonished by Bobby. He had endured so much, in a few short years, he'd, albeit temporarily, had his body stolen from him, his foundations shaken and a new awareness awakened within him. He'd lost his father, a man he'd tried all his life to do right by. And now, he had suffered another loss, a son he'd never really had and never would. Yet he still was the same good ol', dependable Bobby: kind of funny, kind of sad, but always a friend.  
  
Presently, Jean shifted herself into a sitting position, her feet still resting comfortably on Bobby's lap. Even without using any of her abilities, Jean knew what Bobby was thinking, clear as day, and what it was that he needed to hear more than anything else in the world.  
  
Almost cautiously, Jean reached out a pale hand and touched, stroked, the sleep roughened cheek before her. Bobby turned to her, several inches away, he seemed closer. Her hand slid to the nape of his neck easily. Meeting his eyes, she saw something indescribable there-a sort of desperate bottomlessness that would remain a mystery to her even when she grew older.  
  
A pregnant pause lay between them.  
  
"You would've been a good father, Bobby."  
  
The muscles in his face jerked and he gave a weak smile, his eyes showing the first signs of a glistening dampness in the soft light of the room.  
  
Jean shifted once more, leaning herself against him, resting her head against his chest, awkwardly snaking her arms around him, feeling the warmth of his body seep into her. One of his arms moved to drape itself across her thin shoulders. Her eyelids slid quietly shut.  
  
"Oh, Bobby," she murmured into the gray cotton of his T-shirt, "I'm so sorry."  
  
His grip on her shoulders tightened and she could hear his breathing grow ragged. His head bent. Jean felt a sudden and violent clarity, now painfully aware of both Bobby's grief and her own. She mourned everything. What her life had become, as well as what it hadn't.  
  
Jean waited until the rising and falling of the body beneath her head regained it's even, steady pattern before looking back at him. His face was damp; his clear eyes seemed somehow darker. As she looked up at him, and he down at her, all thought seemed to drain out of and away from Jean. The moment seemed startlingly still. The quiet mutterings of the TV, everything faded until it was just the two of them, Bobby and Jean, alone and joined in an almost isolating embrace - an island in the middle of an ocean. Green eyes met blue, perfectly motionless. Carefully, Jean raised her hands, framing Bobby's face, feeling the wetness there. There was a roaring in her ears despite the silence.  
  
Astounding even herself, Jean leaned up and, with no visible trace of hesitation, met her lips to Bobby's in an action so effortless that it threatened to swallow her with its very simplicity. She sensed him blink in surprise before fluttering his short, masculine lashes closed.  
  
Neither Bobby nor Jean dared to breathe as the kiss deepened with aching slowness. Bobby's coarse hands rose swiftly and entangled themselves in the soft auburn mane of the woman before him. It was a motion laced with an intensity only noticeable in those who have gone without such human intimacy for too long.  
  
Then, in an instant, Bobby pulled back, staring at her, questioning. Jean dropped her eyes, surprised by her own irregular breathing.  
  
"I'm sorry," she offered, her face was hot with blood.  
  
"Are you?" he asked in what was barely a whisper.  
  
Jean's eyes flicked back to his face, "Are *you*?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Yes," his voice was husky.  
  
Gently, tactfully, he placed one hand on each of her shoulders and pushed her off of him, easing himself off of the couch in one smooth motion.  
  
"I should probably turn in."  
  
"Bobby, I--"  
  
"Goodnight, Jean," he instantly regretted the venom in his voice but made no retraction. Instead, he stiffened and disappeared, into the shadows of the room and down the hall.  
  
Jean inhaled sharply and deeply, setting her jaw, pouting her full lips, stubbornly refusing to become subject to her own emotion. She swallowed hard and tried to quiet her whirling mind. Carefully, she lay back down on the couch, fighting the emotion threatening to overcome her until, at last, she allowed sleep to bleed into her once more. 


	2. Foolish Things

Foolish Things  
  
By Polexia Aphrodite  
  
Notes: I've been thinking way too much about whether or not to put this up. However, my assertions that Bobby Drake *is* (at least in part) Benjamin Braddock seem to have won out. In any case, if you're reading this, then I've obviously made my decision, which may or may not be overturned.  
  
Also, my little writer-y quirk about this story is that I think of it as more of a sequel or a second part to The Sensation of Falling posted in chaptering form for reader convenience than an actual chapter.  
  
Please review if you've got a moment.  
  
Disclaimer: Bobby, Jean, and the X-Men belong to Marvel.  
  
____________________________________________________  
  
It had all begun earlier that day. Or perhaps it was earlier that week. Bobby Drake could only shake his head and mutter at such wonderings. He had long ago resigned himself to not quite ever knowing when exactly the whole thing had begun.  
  
Maybe it had all started on the night when Jean kissed him. He'd been shocked, of course. No other reaction would have been suitable for an X- Man who had just been kissed by his teammate's wife, estrangement or no estrangement. It had been over the next few days though that Bobby had found himself more and more drawn to its memory.  
  
It had been so gentle, so natural, so simple, but what bothered Bobby the most was its openness. What had it meant? Had it really just been in the spirit of comfort? Comforting him for.what had happened in Hong Kong. But Bobby, like everyone else in the mansion, knew that Jean was really and truly the lost one. Isolated by Scott, rejected by Logan, everyone knew and understood her loneliness and the misery that it caused in her. Bobby wondered if it even mattered. Who cared if she had had an ulterior motive for what she had done? The fact was that she *had* kissed him, and it had been so long since anyone had.  
  
But then again, perhaps it had begun yesterday. Scott (whom Bobby had been happy to avoid) and his team had been called on some sort of superheroic errand, the object of which Bobby didn't know, nor did he care. He had only found himself wondering why he felt so pleased with this news. Was it because, at least for a little while, he would no longer have to worry about ducking and covering whenever Scott came near? Or were his own motives more sinister than even he imagined?  
  
All the same, it could've even begun just a few short hours ago. Dinner had been finished and cleared away. Bobby had been sitting on a balcony behind the mansion, enjoying the lukewarm breeze stroking his face and hair as he watched the sun slowly dip behind the horizon with fiery elegance. It had been then that he had heard the quiet click of the sliding door as it opened and closed somewhere off to his right. He had looked up to see Jean sharing the small balcony with him. A long ponytail on the crown of her head was swept up with the breeze, her pale skin reflected the sunset's brilliant shades of pink and orange, but it had been her eyes that had made his glance linger. There was a seriousness in them that went beyond the usual melancholy that they had adopted some time ago.  
  
"I don't think there's any dessert left."  
  
The gravity behind her unimportant words was obvious.  
  
Bobby had heard it but, instead of replying, nodded soundlessly and turned back to the horizon. What had seemed to be a long silence followed. Jean moved her weight from foot to foot uneasily. When she finally realized that she would elicit no more response from him, she had turned and walked back into the mansion dejectedly.  
  
Bobby had continued to sit in unmoving silence until the sun finally disappeared entirely. He knew what Jean thought had just happened and he knew what she didn't. That he *had* heard it.  
  
~*~  
  
Leaning against the rough shingles near the door of the boathouse, Bobby could only swallow hard, breathe deep and feel grateful for Scott's absence as he struggled to quiet the tumult that occurred in his head since he had left the balcony. Jean had turned in about an hour ago, the whole mansion had. He knew she was in there.  
  
What if he was wrong? He rolled his eyes in spite of the doubt in his mind.  
  
--You're not wrong-- he reassured himself --*She kissed *you*, idiot, remember?--  
  
Still doubtful, he reached over a hand and gently rapped on the door before him. He quickly jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.  
  
--Maybe she won't even hear me--  
  
But, of course, she had, and, in the matter of a few moments, the door cracked open, revealing only a sliver of the room and Jean, garbed comfortably in violet cotton pajamas. Bobby ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach.  
  
"I thought you'd come"  
  
He tried to think of some sort of witty comeback, or any comeback at all, really. Finding himself at a loss for words, Bobby could only smile feebly as the door swung open.  
  
"Come on in"  
  
~*~  
  
The next morning, when Jean opened her eyes, she felt more whole, more complete, and more alive than she had in months. Sunlight filtered in through gauzy curtains, creating an incandescent glow that softened the room until it appeared almost dreamlike. As she lay in her bed, still and satisfied, memories of the night before trickled back into her conscious. Her mouth curved into a small smile at the recollection.  
  
"Bobby," she murmured, stretching only to be met by the ache of muscles that hadn't been used in ages.  
  
A hushed clamoring continued somewhere outside of her view.  
  
"Bobby," she repeated, a little louder.  
  
Silence.  
  
She sat up abruptly to see him, now fully dressed and making his way toward the door.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"I..uh..I have a Danger Room session. Warren'll be looking for me," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck.  
  
Jean wrapped the light blue linen bed sheet around her and moved over to where he stood with an almost feline fluidity. She reached up and replaced Bobby's hand with hers on the nape of his neck and slipped her other hand around his waist with such tenderness that Bobby's heart swelled. As if by reflex, Bobby reciprocated her actions, pulling her towards him.  
  
Jean could almost feel the pounding of his heart through the sweatshirt he wore. She could sense confusion and disbelief radiating from his mind. A million things raced through her head, emotions, words, thoughts, feelings, not one that she could find words to express.  
  
"What does this mean?" he ventured, genuinely curious.  
  
Something between uncertainty and unabashed excitement coursed through Jean's veins.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Bobby exhaled sharply.  
  
"So am I coming by again tonight or something?" his question, a juxtaposition of hope and slight irritation.  
  
Jean, sensing Bobby's aggravation at her indecision, ran the pad of her index finger and the glossy, red nail that crowned it across his jaw line, lips, chin, and down the sinews of his neck, watching her action thoughtfully. She could feel his mind relax and her confidence rise.  
  
"Scott will most likely be back this afternoon. You probably shouldn't come around here."  
  
Bobby gave a cold laugh before Jean cut him off, "I'll come by your room around 10."  
  
"Won't Scott notice you're gone?"  
  
"Scott?" she scoffed, "No."  
  
"Tonight then?"  
  
"Tonight," Jean replied definitely, stepping out of Bobby's arms and looking up at his face with casual determination.  
  
Bobby gave her one last, amazed look before exiting the room and closing the door behind him. As he made his way toward the Danger Room, he couldn't help grinning.  
  
Today would be a good day. 


	3. Exit Stage Right

Exit Stage Right  
  
By Polexia Aphrodite  
  
Rated: PG-13 for some language  
  
Notes: I've always thought of trilogies as very tidy ways of doing a series, so I think this might be the end (or is it?). I'm a really big Bobby fan, so I hope that I've done right by him.  
  
In any case, huge thanks to everyone who gave me feedback, it was really wonderful of you.  
  
Disclaimer: Bobby, Jean, and the X-Men belong to Marvel.  
  
_____________________________________________________________  
  
"We lead really odd lives, don't we?"  
  
Bobby turned his head towards the woman beside him, unmoved from where she had collapsed on the bed only a few moments ago.  
  
"Oh, really?" he replied breathlessly.  
  
Jean calmed her own breathing before pulling the bed sheet up to her waist and rolling over onto her stomach in a show of modesty now uncommon between she and her companion of the last two weeks.  
  
The room was dark, only the yellow glow of the bedside lamp cast misshapen shadows onto the walls, giving the room an almost eerie appearance.  
  
Since their first encounter, Jean and Bobby had found themselves unable to avoid the lure of human contact that had previously been refused them. When Scott and his team had returned from their mission, Bobby and Jean had simply relocated to Bobby's small bachelor pad inside the mansion. They had soon found their craving for each other insatiable, always being sure to safely avoid wondering if it was really each other that they thirsted for.  
  
"Yes," she answered enigmatically as Bobby leaned towards her to trace a finger along the fleshy bumps of her spine.  
  
Jean brushed Bobby's hand away and sat up on the edge of the bed, groping the floor until she found the clothing that had earlier been discarded there. Dressing, she rose to a nearby window, peering through the blinds at the outside world. The sun had not yet risen. The pool, basketball court, and surrounding forest that spread out in her view were still bathed in shadows and hazy early morning fog, interrupted only by the garish beams emitted from the mansion's security lights. Her fingertips pressed against the icy glass and a shiver flew down her spine at the thought of trekking through the cold back to the boathouse. She sighed, resigning herself to the fact that she couldn't stay in the warmth of the room, crawl back into bed and sink to sleep.  
  
Behind her, Bobby groaned and rolled to his side, an outstretched elbow and a hand in his messy hair supporting his head.  
  
"Leaving so soon?"  
  
At the sound of his voice, Jean lowered her hand, unsure of how to approach her next words. She was fighting herself, but she knew that she couldn't change what she had to do.  
  
"I think we should end it."  
  
~*~  
  
"Welcome home," Jean smiled at Logan as he sauntered down the long, mahogany hall towards her.  
  
He had only recently returned from retrieving another student for the Institute and she had found herself grateful for the reclaimed presence of him. She took long, appreciative glances at his broad shoulders, gleaming eyes, unkempt black hair. Just being around him again was exhilarating.  
  
He flashed a familiar toothy grin as he approached her, wrapping her in his arms, quieting the ache inside him that knew she couldn't be his.  
  
Jean reveled in the feel of soft flannel against her cheek as well as the traces of cigar smoke, exhaust, and masculinity that filled her nostrils. Nevertheless, as soon as she had taken him into her arms, Jean felt Logan stiffen.  
  
He pulled away, his face an unreadable mask.  
  
"Drake?"  
  
Jean's mouth flew open. The room around her spun. Her hand grabbed futilely at the slick wall beside her for some kind of steadiness. How could she have forgotten his ability? How could she have been so careless?  
  
"Logan, it's not what you think," the words shot out of her mouth without thought.  
  
"Jeannie," he had practically whimpered as he stumbled backwards.  
  
Jean's heart lurched as she looked into his eyes.  
  
She had hurt him.  
  
She had hurt him so much.  
  
"I can explain," she offered, even as she knew she couldn't.  
  
She swallowed, trying to drown the sharp pain in her throat. There was a distant whimpering in her ears and she surprised herself as she realized that the desperate sounds were products of her own voice.  
  
"Logan, please," she began again, too late. She could only watch helplessly as he turned, wandering numbly back down the hall.  
  
Later, Jean would wonder why she hadn't followed him, but at that moment, she had found herself unable to do anything except slide to the floor as soundless sobs ripped through her body.  
  
~*~  
  
"What do you mean, 'end it'?"  
  
Jean shrugged away the memory of the day before, "It was a bad idea."  
  
"No shit, Sherlock," Bobby countered, his voice rising dangerously, "but it was *your* idea, why else do you think I went along with it?"  
  
Bobby's pride stung. He had purposely avoided thinking ahead to this inevitable future and felt painfully unprepared.  
  
An awkward silence settled upon the room.  
  
Finally, Bobby elected for the most obvious and only question he could think of.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Jean shrugged again, still facing away from him. She clenched her fists, determined not to mention Logan's name.  
  
Bobby reddened with frustration so palpable that it washed over Jean's heightened mind. Slowly, she turned to him. He was now perched on the edge of his side of the bed, facing the wall, the sheet draped across his lap. His bare back still shone with sweat.  
  
Moving with extreme sensitivity, she came to stand beside him, his eyes remained stubbornly fixated on the blank wall. Her hand began to move towards his sandy hair, wanting nothing else but to remove the pain that emanated from him.  
  
"Bobby--," she began tenderly.  
  
"Christ, Jean, it's not like I'm in love with you," he growled, angrily batting away her hand.  
  
He knew he was overreacting. He knew that what he and Jean had couldn't have lasted. Every time they had been together, he nearly made himself sick with guilt. He would be glad to rid himself of the stress she had caused him and yet, now that the moment was upon him, he felt nothing but helpless desperation and a knowledge that he wasn't ready for what was happening.  
  
--No--, he thought, --It's too soon--.  
  
"Bobby," she began again.  
  
"Just go," he snarled, not really meaning what he said.  
  
Above all things, he didn't want her to leave. He wanted to erase the past few minutes. He wanted her to crawl back into bed and lie in his arms as they had too few times before. He didn't want her to leave.  
  
"I'll see you later, Bobby."  
  
She was really leaving him. It was glaringly obvious now.  
  
--Not like she'd be the first--  
  
He winced at the thought and the truth behind it.  
  
"Fuck you, Jean."  
  
His audacity shocked him.  
  
Somewhere in the distance, Bobby's pain dulled mind registered the opening and closing of the door as Jean showed herself out.  
  
The day's first light was seeping into the room, its pale indigo hue lightening the shadows.  
  
Bobby turned, lying himself back down on the bed. Gradually, his anger melted away, replaced by immense fatigue. Thoughts of Jean were interrupted by thoughts of a boisterous, blue-eyed child that he would never know. It was with this in his mind that Bobby was gently eased into sleep.  
  
~*~  
  
In a few hours, he would rise, pack his belongings into his faded, leather valise and board a bus headed for Long Island. It would be years, however, before he would finally realize the fate that would, in time, be his: the house in Port Jefferson that would keep him near his mother, the job that would earn him respect, the woman who would become his wife and truly make him a father, the child who would make him complete, the life that would bring him happiness.  
  
All this would be waiting for him in Long Island, but, for now, he would sleep. 


	4. Epilogue: The Life After

Epilogue: The Life After  
  
By Polexia Aphrodite  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Notes: This is just a little something that I wrote after the previous three. Hope you like it.  
  
Archive: For the whole thing: anywhere as long as you tell me.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Bobby, Barbie, Polly Pocket, the New York Yankees, People magazine or Lilo and Stitch. I'm sure this comes as a great surprise to you all.  
  
________________________________________________________  
  
Faye groaned loudly, her eyes fluttering open as she rolled into the warm hollow of the bed that had been left by her now absent husband. Sliding her legs over the edge of the bed until her feet met the cool wood of the floor, she shuffled down the hallway towards the living room where she could hear the soft murmuring of the television.  
  
She barely opened her eyes as she walked. Not needing visual reassurance to know where to step to avoid Barbie's Corvette or the village of tiny Polly Pocket houses. Finally, she arrived at her destination, opening her still heavy eyelids a little wider to see her daughter sprawled on the flowered rug and her husband similarly spread out on the worn sofa. Both faced the television, both watching the usual Saturday morning cartoons, both with the same level of deep interest.  
  
Faye leaned against the doorjamb, filling her lungs to their zenith. It was at this soft breathing that her husband looked up at her. He swallowed an amused grin as he studied her dark tangled hair and pathetically slouching form covered in an oversize New York Yankees T-shirt.  
  
"Hey," he chirped in acknowledgement.  
  
She grunted in reply before her mind finally kicked into gear.  
  
"Have you kids eaten breakfast?" she inquired in her thick Long Island drawl.  
  
She looked towards the tiny girl before her who was lying on her back, still wearing her Lilo and Stitch pajamas, her head and it's mess of camel colored curls resting on a pillow as she peered down through her eyelashes at the TV screen.  
  
She nodded absently.  
  
Faye turned to her husband who was again engrossed in the misadventures of an animated cat and mouse.  
  
Turning into the old house's cramped kitchen with a sigh, she began to dig through the freezer, until she found what she sought and was finally able to press the button sending two frozen waffles into the depths of the toaster.  
  
Grabbing a month old People magazine from the countertop and a pen, she lifted herself onto the counter with a practiced grace. Turning to the crossword puzzle, she had just begun to ponder 29 Down when her husband came bounding into the small room.  
  
"Whatcha doin'?"  
  
"Commercial break," he explained.  
  
She nodded understandingly.  
  
The room was still for a moment; Faye could feel his cerulean eyes on her but continued her puzzle.  
  
"Do we lead odd lives?"  
  
"Huh?" Faye looked up at him, rubbing a hand across her hopeless hair.  
  
"Do we lead odd lives?" he repeated, his voice growing softer, more serious.  
  
His sudden solemnity bothered her and she turned back to the puzzle in her lap.  
  
"I dunno. You're pretty odd sometimes--"  
  
"Faye--"  
  
"--all of the time--"  
  
"Seriously."  
  
She looked back up at him. He was only a few inches away now. His pale blue eyes were fixated on her, naked with anticipation. She searched his face, found herself confused by the set of his jaw. Her eyes swept over him, hoping to find some clue in his body language. His lean shoulders were squared under the thin white cotton of his shirt, his legs stuck out from under dark plaid boxers and his bare feet were firmly planted on the tile in front of her.  
  
Unsure of what he was expecting, what he wanted to hear, Faye opted for honesty.  
  
"Do we lead odd lives?" she echoed, straightening, "No, I don't think so."  
  
He smiled, making no futile effort to mask the emotion in his eyes.  
  
"I don't think so, either," he whispered, his voice becoming thick as he looked down into his wife's liquid brown eyes.  
  
Placing a hand on the countertop on either side of her, he leaned forward, gently nuzzling her neck. As he moved his way up to her ear, he breathed her in, the tang of laundry detergent, the faint floral scent of her shampoo, the musky aroma of the lotion she used after showering.  
  
She was now fully awake and heard him mumble in her ear, "Love you."  
  
Her mouth turned upwards.  
  
"Love you, too," she answered, lifting a hand to his cheek.  
  
He kissed her cheek warmly, replaying in his mind the earthy affection that she always used when she said those words to him.  
  
Softly pulling away, he made it as far as the doorway to the kitchen before Faye spoke up.  
  
"Bob?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Why did you ask me that?" she asked quietly.  
  
He turned to her.  
  
"I was just thinking."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Just some crazy things I did when I was a kid"  
  
"Tell me," she pleaded unashamedly, jumping off of the counter, stopping short of crossing the room, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him until he did.  
  
"Not now," he sighed and dropped his eyes before turning and padding back to the living room.  
  
She didn't follow him, but could almost see him as he playfully pounced on their daughter, she could hear the shrill squeals of laughter as he tickled her resonate through the house.  
  
Her arms wrapped themselves around her body.  
  
There was so much he didn't tell her. About his past, the time he spent upstate. Why he left. The thought made her eyes burn even as she knew no tears would come. She had shed her tears over this long ago. Her knees faltered and she tried to reach for some great reserve of strength within her, but found only emptiness. She had given that to him too on all the nights when they were first married and he would wake out of dreams in the middle of the night with strange names on his lips.  
  
She jumped as the toaster popped behind her but remained unmoved.  
  
Tomorrow. She would ask him again tomorrow. Maybe he would tell her then. 


End file.
